Ghosts of the Past
by kezya
Summary: Cadfael and Hugh try to uncover a spying plot and find themselves in mortal danger at a remote manor. Sixty five years later, Sir Guy of Gisburne stumbles across an old mystery... Crossover with Robin of Sherwood, written for Valdhery.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Gift-fic for Valdhery, and it's about time I get this done, too. :) Crossover with _Robin_ _of Sherwood_ (but that doesn't even come into play until the second chapter). I own neither_ RoS_ nor the_ Cadfael Chronicles_, I'm only borrowing them for some fun. Hope you enjoy, and go read Val's fics too, they're awesome!

**CHAPTER ONE**

_1146_

It was the third week of January in the year of Our Lord 1146, and the winter held as strong as ever. When Hugh Beringar and his three men-at-arms dismounted in the courtyard of the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, their breaths rose like white plumes in the frosty air. The Sheriff of Shropshire left his men to tend to the horses, and made his way across the courtyard to meet with Abbot Radulfus, his footsteps tracing a darker path in the thin layer of fluffy snow that had gathered on the ground despite the best efforts of numerous broom-wielding novices.

It was shortly after Terce, and the abbot was to be found in his lodgings. He received the unexpected visitor with due attention, and frowned slightly as he listened to Beringar's request, but gave no immediate answer, contenting himself with sending an attendant brother to seek out Brother Cadfael, the abbey herbalist.

Brother Cadfael had chosen to spend the morning hours at the infirmary, in helping Brother Edmund to care for the sick, of whom there was never any shortage, particularly now, in this bitter weather. Yet other beds were occupied by brothers whose chief ailment was old age, and the discomforts that it brought – but there were fewer of them now, Cadfael thought sadly as he worked; fewer patient, elderly faces than he remembered seeing here in the past. And there would be fewer still, before the winter ended, for surely not all of these venerable brethren, who had seen the abbey first established, would live to see the coming of the spring.

When Brother Simon arrived at the infirmary to inform him that his presence was requested by the abbot, Cadfael was glad enough to be taken out of his gloomy thoughts, and followed the messenger placidly, in his peculiar, rolling gait of an old seaman. Along the way, he amicably inquired about Father Abbot's purpose in summoning him. Simon presumed that it had something to do with the arrival of the Sheriff and the news he brought, though what news that would be, he did not know. Cadfael thanked him, and frowned. In spite of his long-standing friendship with Hugh Beringar, he was only rarely invited to his meetings with Abbot Radulfus, and never without good cause. A sudden thought gave him pause. In the town, as in the cloister, many had fallen prey to the winter chills. Had Hugh's wife, Aline, or their son, Cadfael's own godson Giles, also succumbed to an illness? Spurred on by this new worry, the aging ex-Crusader trotted across the courtyard at a pace that left the youthful Brother Simon to marvel in his wake.

Cadfael reached Radulfus' lodgings well ahead of the messenger, knocked and entered with great speed, but with much less decorum than was due. Spotting his younger friend seated opposite the abbot, he called, "Giles and Aline – are they well?"

Hugh's face was serious, but his dark eyes glittered with amusement at Cadfael's breathlessness. "Well enough, Brother, and both send you their love." Cadfael sighed with relief, and turned to Abbot Radulfus, to offer a belated and contrite greeting.

If he were facing the silver-haired, patrician Prior Robert instead, he would not have escaped a harsh scolding. But Radulfus, though not a man to be trifled with, knew his herbalist well, even so as to occasionally make some allowances for the waywardness that years behind cloister walls had not been enough to cure. Therefore, although his face and voice were stern, he made no mention of Cadfael's breach of etiquette, passing instead straight to the matter at hand.

"My lord Beringar comes to inform me that Godfrey Deschamps, of Cotteswalde manor east of Shrewsbury, is laid low with an unexpected sickness, and asks for your services as a healer, Brother, since he trusts your skills more than those of any other physician in the area," Radulfus said with furrowed brow. "He sends for you specifically, and promises a most generous donation to the abbey, if I can but spare you for a few days."

"By chance, I have managed to help him with an ailment once before," Cadfael said cautiously. It would not do to appear unduly eager, but he had to confess to himself that something in his soul stirred at the perspective of a journey. "I did not know that the event gave him such faith in my abilities, Father."

"It seems that he was in Jerusalem at the same time as you, Cadfael – or so he's told me once," Hugh hastened to explain. "Perhaps he trusts you all the more for being a fellow Crusader."

"Perhaps, though to my knowledge we never met one another in the Holy Land." And why should they, indeed? One would have been a knight, the other a simple Welsh soldier. What reason would they have to keep company together? But time could well have blurred the old differences in Godfrey's memory, and made Cadfael seem like an old comrade-in-arms. Stranger things had happened, after all!

Abbot Radulfus looked minded to refuse Deschamps's request. He was not easily bribed, as other wealthy landowners had discovered in the past, and he kept his house in strict order. Brother Cadfael enjoyed a greater degree of freedom than was perhaps usual for a Benedictine, yet he was still a cloistered monk, and should not be sent to wander the countryside at any layman's whim.

Beringar saw this, and his face grew even more serious. "Father Abbot, I haven't yet told you Godfrey Deschamps's whole message. He asks for Brother Cadfael's presence, but he also asks for me. He claims he has been poisoned."

---

Concerned that a man's life might be in danger from a murderer, Radulfus gave Brother Cadfael his permission to leave the abbey for four days, considering it ample time to fulfill this mission of mercy. Cotteswalde could be reached within a half day of travel. Cadfael needed only to pack some of his medicines, which he set out to do in short order. He worked with calm assurance, well used to the task, but he could not quite disregard the familiar excitement that was seeping into his bones. For all his sixty six years, and for all the cold of this harsh winter, still there was something of a _vagus_ left in him.

No, he corrected himself, looking around his domain and breathing in the warm aroma of herbs. Not quite a _vagus_, for he did not stray. He belonged here, in this herbarium, near the relics of his little Welsh saint, and with his brethren. He might enjoy his occasional ventures into the world, but his true peace lay here.

Hugh Beringar entered, letting in a gust of frosty air and sighing, for the warmth of the hut was much welcome after the cold outside. "Hugh!" Cadfael exclaimed with pleasure. "Is it time to go?"

Beringar sank onto a bench and arched a sardonic eyebrow at his friend. "Why, Cadfael, do you ache for the open road so much? I confess I am in no great hurry to venture out in the snow! We have some time yet. Deschamps's man is with the abbot now; a deed must be signed, if his lord's gift to the abbey is to stand. Then we must also wait for Will Warden to bring you a horse from the castle. Your Prior Robert would not be parted with anything better than a mule, and even that grudgingly!"

"He guards the abbey stables most jealously," Cadfael agreed, handing Beringar a cup of mulled wine. It was accepted gladly. "How many will go with us?"

"Sergeant Warden, five others from the garrison, and Deschamps's man John, who will be our guide."

Cadfael, in the process of pouring a cup for himself, paused and looked at Hugh with surprise. "Six men-at-arms, Hugh?"

Beringar's face was grave. "Yes, and I can only hope that this will prove excessive! But in his letter to me Godfrey Deschamps swears that he has discovered a plot against King Stephen. Treason, Cadfael, a network of spies in the very heart of Shropshire!"

Brother Cadfael sat down next to his friend and took a sip of his own wine. "You mentioned none of that to Father Abbot," he remarked lightly.

Beringar laughed. "No, indeed! I trust his discretion, but where would I be if he decided that such matters were no concern of his, or of yours? I shall have need of your sharp mind, my friend, as much as of your healing skills! But I did not lie to Father Abbot," he added, seeing Cadfael's reproachful look. "According to Deschamps, his sudden illness was indeed an attempt on his life, made by an agent of the Empress. More than that he would not say in his letter."

Cadfael pondered this for a while. "Can his revelations be trusted, do you think?"

"You mean, is he a man who would invent the whole story for some personal gain, or see a spying plot where there was none out of misguided zeal?" He sighed. "Perhaps. I am not well acquainted with him, but he is a rash man by all accounts, stubborn unto obstinacy, and disposed to think very highly of himself. Who knows? But he is also said to be shrewd, and he's always been a loyal supporter of the King. His suspicions deserve to be investigated, at least." Beringar smiled wickedly. "Perhaps I should be asking you questions, not the other way round, Brother. After all, you know each other, and he seems to hold you in high regard – one old Crusader to another!"

"Old?" repeated Cadfael, pretending to be insulted. "You would do well to hold your tongue, you insolent young heathen, if you want to taste any more of this wine!"

Hugh raised his hands in mock surrender. "_Pax_, Cadfael, I withdraw my words completely. I dare not risk your wrath when so much is at stake!"

He held out his empty cup to Cadfael with a hopeful smile. The monk grunted, but poured him another measure. Beringar never had the chance to drink it, however, for it was then that the door opened for a second time, letting in an unexpected visitor.

The newcomer was a bold young man of no more than twenty summers, with freckled skin and wavy, copper-coloured hair. He was attired like a man-at-arms, but he did not wear the colours of the castle garrison. His voice, when he addressed Hugh, was very respectful, but his quick eyes roamed over the dried herbs, the medicines, and Cadfael himself, taking everything in with unabashed curiosity.

"Forgive me, my lord Sheriff, but the good brothers told me I could find you here. The deed is signed and ready – I brought it with me from Cotteswalde, written down with my lord's own hand. The jewels are now safely installed at the abbey, praise be to God, and Sergeant Warden has returned with the men, and brought a horse for Brother Cadfael."

Hugh nodded briskly and rose to his feet, the wine forgotten. "We can depart now, Cadfael, if you're ready."

Cadfael extinguished the brazier and took a final look at his herbal kingdom. Everything appeared in order, and he knew he could trust Brother Griffin's young but capable hands to keep it so. He slung his bag of medicines over his shoulder.

"I am ready, Hugh."

---

Brother Cadfael hunched down in his saddle and wrapped the cloak more securely around his shoulders. The ride, seemingly pleasant at first, had soon turned anything but, as the wind whistled in the wide clearings and bit deep, freezing muscle and bone. There was no snowfall, not yet at least, but the heavy leaden clouds hung dangerously low in the sky. Young John of Cotteswalde was worried by them, too, for he turned his freckled face upwards and watched them for some time, then said to Hugh, "'Tis better we should hurry, my lord. Such clouds never bring anything but mischief."

They were not very far from Cotteswalde when the blizzard finally struck, but once it did, it was with such force as if the sky conspired with the roaring wind to bury them all in an avalanche of white. Blinded by the snow, made breathless by the wind, they lost all sight of each other and all sense of direction almost immediately. Pulling down his cowl to shield his eyes as much as possible, Brother Cadfael turned in his saddle and peered into the swirling whiteness, calling out the names of everyone in the party. He thought he heard other voices calling, too, but he could not tell who or where, until a dark shape suddenly appeared on his left.

"Cadfael? Cadfael!"

"Hugh!"

Hands stiff and unresponsive from the cold, Brother Cadfael managed to untie the cord that served as a girdle to his habit, and threw one end to Hugh Beringar, who caught it and held on fast. They were thus protected from being separated for a second time, but where were all the others? And how could they hope to find their way anywhere in this raging blizzard? Nothing could be seen, not even the trees, which could at least have offered them some cover. Brother Cadfael began to pray, not for his own life, for he was not afraid to die when his time came, but for Hugh and the others, younger than himself and needed by their families.

Then, as if Saint Winifred had heard her servant's prayer, Hugh cried out, "Look, Cadfael! Light!"

Cadfael strained his eyes, and somewhere in the distance there was indeed a light, small but steady, a promise of warmth and safety. The sight filled them with newfound strength, and they made their way towards it, Hugh's favourite raw-boned grey horse clearing a path in the snow for Cadfael's smaller mare. For a long time it seemed that their slow efforts were all for nothing, that the light was as distant as when they had set out. Then, suddenly, it began to grow closer, until they could see its source clearly – a wooden stockade, a gate, and, in front of it, a woman holding a lantern.

Bone-weary, they struggled to reach this welcome apparition. The woman saw them and cried out, less from fear and more from amazement at their sorry state. At her call servants flocked to the gate, so quickly that it was obvious the woman was the mistress of this house. Hugh and Cadfael were helped to dismount and led inside, across the courtyard and into the main hall, where a fire burned and crackled merrily. The woman followed, having entrusted the lantern to a burly servant.

Brother Cadfael took off his sodden cloak and stretched his legs towards the fire, gratefully accepting a much-needed cup of mulled wine. Beside him, Hugh Beringar did the same, pausing only to shake the melting snow from his black hair. Their hostess waited for the wine to work its healing magic, before she spoke, "My lord, good brother. You were fortunate to reach this manor on a day like this. I am called Reynilda Burford, and this is Cotteswalde. Whatever business you have in these parts, you are welcome to rest here and wait out the storm."

She was, they could now see, a mere slip of a girl, no older than sixteen years, but calm and self-assured. She was wrapped up in heavy shawls, some of which she had already had to pull off in the warmth of the hall. Her pretty face, slightly pink from the cold, gave her the appearance of a child, and yet her eyes were heavy with some hidden worry.

Hugh took it upon himself to deliver the explanations. "Mistress Burford, I am Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, the sheriff of this shire." His sharp eyes did not miss the girl's slight start, but he went on as if nothing had happened. "This is Brother Cadfael of the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Shrewsbury. We come here to see Master Godfrey Deschamps, at his own request."

Reynilda composed herself with some effort. "My lord," she said, her childish face earnest. "I fear all the troubles you have taken to get here will be for naught. Godfrey Deschamps, my uncle, was murdered in the night."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Happy (slightly belated) birthday, Val:)

**CHAPTER TWO**

_1211_

"God's teeth, Gisburne, this accursed shire is made of nothing but water! To think we were dragged across half the country – for _this_!"

It had been raining for two days, and the Sheriff's mood was beyond foul. The whole expedition had been ill-fated from the start, and no wonder, considering what had prompted it. King John did not forgive easily. After Huntingdon's body had disappeared from the cart before they'd reached Newark (and the exact nature of that incident still gave the Sheriff something to puzzle over), Robert de Rainault and his steward had found themselves deep in disgrace. A timely bribe had saved their necks, true, but they had still very nearly been drafted into John's war against Llewellyn, and sent to the Welsh border to join the Earl of Chester's army; and, while they were thus wasting time in Shropshire, the outlaws were surely in Nottingham, doing God only knew what. De Rainault sighed angrily, then continued in a more controlled fashion, "Well, we were lucky Hugo managed to buy our noble monarch off in the end, or we'd have been in Wales by now."

Sir Guy of Gisburne scowled, making no effort to hide his disapproval. His own mood could hardly be called jubilant. Apart from the rain, he'd had to endure the company of the Sheriff, who, as he was wont to do, sought to alleviate the boredom of travel by continually taunting his steward. Besides, Guy _had_ wanted to take part in the war. It was a chance for a man to prove himself, to win wealth and recognition – two things that, Gisburne felt, his current employ was rather unlikely to give him.

De Rainault, who was watching him from the corner of his eye, noticed the scowl, and correctly deduced what had prompted it. "Gisburne, you are an idiot." He began to say something else (something even more vitriolic, no doubt), then broke off, cursing, as the wind blew what seemed like a bucketful of water into his face. Gisburne smirked.

They had hoped to stay the night in Dawley, but the road was bad, the men worn out, and the horses skittish, and as the evening drew closer, it became obvious that they would have to set camp somewhere in the water-logged woods. The perspective was not welcome, although the presence of a dozen soldiers was at least likely to keep away both wolves and wolfsheads, if any could be expected to venture abroad in so foul a weather. And the weather, in fact, grew fouler with each passing moment. The wind picked up, howling like all the demons, and the trees on both sides of the path swayed and creaked ominously. As they rode, one heavy branch snapped off and landed in the dirt before them, missing the Sheriff's horse by a few paces. Zephyr took fright and reared, nearly throwing off his rider, and de Rainault swore as he desperately fought to stay in the saddle. One hand shielding his eyes against the lashing rain, Gisburne reached out and grabbed Zephyr's reins near the bit, thanking God that he could at least trust Fury to stay calm. Together, he and the Sheriff slowly brought the panicked animal under control, but it was clear that, if they were to stay in the woods, another accident was just a matter of time.

Then, as if to answer their unspoken prayers, a soldier who had earlier been sent to scout ahead returned at last, emerging from a bend in the road. He hurried to the Sheriff to make his report. The wind snatched his words even as they were formed on his lips, and Gisburne, though he strained his ears, could only hear snippets of what the man was saying.

"...ahead, my lord... manor... looks abandoned... stay the night there."

The Sheriff nodded and turned in his saddle, intending to communicate as much to the soldiers. In spite of his small stature, Robert de Rainault had a voice that could carry across the great hall of Nottingham Castle at its noisiest; but even he was hard-pressed to make himself heard over the infernal howling of the tempest. In the end, he had to give up, and simply spurred his horse forward, gesturing at the men to follow.

Thankfully, the manor, or what was left of it, proved to be quite close, only a little off the main track. The forest was gradually closing in on the buildings, as if bent on reclaiming what had once been torn from it by human efforts, and some of the smaller outhouses had already fallen under the green assault. Gisburne had his doubts about even entering the place, let alone sleeping there, lest the roof collapse on them at any moment, but the scout assured him that he had been inside, and that the main hall looked sturdy enough to house them. Being as cold, wet and miserable as everyone else, the steward allowed himself to be convinced.

The main hall was dank, mouldy, and almost empty, save for one rickety bench in the very middle, but it was also dry, or at least less wet than the forest. Gisburne was the last to enter, having gone to see Fury safely installed at the miraculously surviving stables, and he stepped over the threshold with a small sigh of relief. He was bone-weary and soaked to the skin, and made for the bench before he could quite think what he was doing. Sinking onto it, he had just had the time to hear somebody – it might have been the Sheriff – cry out a warning. Then the bench collapsed, and Gisburne followed it to the ground. He struck his head hard, and knew no more.

_1146_

"My uncle had been taken ill a while ago, and was still in poor health," Reynilda told them, taking a seat on the bench. "He did not eat his evening meals with us in the hall, but had a servant bring them to his room. Last night, that servant knocked on the door but heard no reply, and, on entering, found my uncle dead. He had been stabbed through the heart." Here she shuddered, but otherwise remained calm. A remarkably strong girl, Cadfael thought – or rather, a remarkably strong young woman, for it was clear that even at sixteen, Reynilda Burford was no child to be trifled with.

"Is it known who killed him?" Hugh asked quietly.

"All our servants have been accounted for, save for one man who couldn't be found after the murder was discovered," Reynilda answered confidently. "Some items of value are also missing. It was surely this John of Cotteswalde who stole them and killed my uncle."

This unexpected statement was at first greeted with silence by Beringar and Cadfael. Thus it was that the monk was able to hear a quiet sound, half-gasp, half-sob, somewhere behind him. He turned discreetly, and saw that the girl who had served them wine was listening, one hand pressed against her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

"John of Cotteswalde was the man sent by your uncle to invite us here," Hugh eventually said. "He was our guide to this place, and a part of the escort that we lost in the snowstorm. They may yet arrive here soon. As for the valuables, he brought with him to Shrewsbury some gifts for the abbey. We can later compare the lists, and see if they tally."

For the first time, Reynilda looked flustered and uncertain, and as young as she really was. "What do you say, my lord? That John didn't kill my uncle? But it must have been him, because all else are here, and can give accounts of what they were doing! What—Please," her face crumpled, and tears suddenly shone in her eyes, "I do not know… It must have been John! My uncle, dead… Please, I must go. My betrothed is lost in the snow, and I must wait for him. I hope you will rest well, brother, my lord."

She sprang to her feet and almost fled from the hall. Hugh glanced at her retreating back, then turned to the monk and arched an eyebrow. "So, Cadfael. It appears that our merry guide killed his master, then brought us to the scene of his crime, but ran away into the snowstorm when we were only yards away from the house itself."

The tone was serious, even though the intent was not. Cadfael knew his friend, and could detect the irony; someone else, however, did not know Beringar quite so well, and rushed to defend John against the perceived accusation.

"Oh no, please, my lord, John didn't kill the master! Please, my lord, he didn't!"

It was the servant girl from before, Cadfael realised, the one who had shed a tear when John of Cotteswalde was accused of murder. A young woman, of an age with her mistress - give or take a year, perhaps - but plump and dark where the other was willowy and fair; her hair in ringlets, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes, at the moment, large with embarrassment at having spoken so forwardly.

"What is it, child?" Brother Cadfael asked her kindly. "You want to defend John to us?"

The girl nodded, colour rising in her cheeks, but before she could answer, she was interrupted by a sharp voice that exclaimed, "Jennet! Jennet, girl! Are ye making a nuisance of yourself again?"

The one who spoke was a woman, frail and very old, but carrying herself with the rigid posture of a soldier. She was dressed like a servant, but the curtsey she gave to Hugh was cursory at best. Cadfael's habit earned him a somewhat friendlier greeting, though it was obvious the woman considered him no more than her equal, if that. She caught hold of Jennet's arm, none too gently, and shook her like a terrier might shake a rat.

"This wretched girl does nothing but cries her eyes out since last night. Trust in God, I tell her! I trust in Him, and He has always done fair by me, aye, even when my husband died, and left me a widow with four small children." She suddenly jabbed a finger at Cadfael. "Does the holy brother know why that was done fairly?" Before the monk could frame an appropriate reply, the old woman concluded triumphantly, "Because my husband was a rascal and a drunken rogue! Better no husband than a husband like that."

Hugh's mouth twitched dangerously; fortunately, Cadfael was able to keep his face suitably grave. "It is very good of you to trust Providence so, Mistress--"

"My name is Martha, aye, Martha of Cotteswalde, the cook at this estate, these past many years. John is my great-grandson by Anne, my youngest Thomas's second daughter; dead, now, all of them, and God rest their souls. He is a reckless lad, John is, aye, and sometimes witless, when these is a pretty face nearby, but know this, brother - no kin of mine is a murderer."

"So you say that Mistress Burford is mistaken?" Brother Cadfael asked innocently. Young Jennet nodded her fervent agreement. Martha pursed her thin lips.

"Mistaken is as mistaken does, brother. Master Godfrey was a good man, for all that he was a _Norman_." This sentiment, and particularly the fierce manner in which it was delivered, drew an almost inaudible chuckle from Hugh. Martha did not appear to notice. "He provided for us when God saw fit to take away that old sinner, my husband; he kept me in his service when the young mistress said I was too old to be a cook anymore, aye, and he made John his most trusted man, too. Now, to believe that, after all this, my great-grandson could turn on the man whom our family owes so much – be he Norman or Saxon, or Saracen even – why, to believe that, brother, is to be mistaken indeed."

On that point, she was adamant; John was her great-grandchild, and therefore it stood to reason that he could not have killed Godfrey Deschamps. Nothing could shake her conviction. Cadfael saw that, and asked instead if there had been any strangers in the house on the night of the murder, since the servants all seemed to be accounted for.

Martha scowled. "There's many as comes and goes here, these days, with Master Godfrey in bed more than out of it. Does the good brother see those fellows there?" She pointed at a small group of men huddled together on a bench further away from the fire. "Pilgrims, they say they are, come here from Shrewsbury, but I'd wager your good Saint Winifred has never had cause to lay her eyes upon their cutthroat faces! But the young mistress allows them to rest here, aye, and that is all I will say on this matter."

Hugh raised his eyebrows and looked over at the silent group with interest, but before he or Cadfael could pursue this line of investigation any further, there was a sudden commotion outside. "That will be Master Adam de Warre, he that is betrothed to the young mistress," said Martha, raising her head and listening with the intensity of an old bloodhound.

"Master Godfrey didn't think much of him," young Jennet said with surprising vehemence, and, Cadfael thought, also a smidgeon of satisfaction that her mistress's chosen man was not free from all blemish, either. Not a very charitable attitude, but, the monk considered, one which might perhaps be understood under the circumstances.

"And how would ye know of that, Jennet, girl? Did Master Godfrey take ye in his confidence, and told ye what he thought or did not think of people?"

"They quarreled," answered Jennet, who clearly would not be intimidated this time. "The master and Mistress Reynilda, they quarreled, and—"

A young man, dark-haired and burly, was being escorted into the hall, obviously the worse for wear and in a bad mood after his journey through the snowstorm. Reynilda hovered anxiously at his elbow. Old Martha looked at them for a moment, then said, somewhat more gently than before, "Come, Jennet. We must to our duties." When she turned to Cadfael and Hugh, the belligerent note was back in her voice. "I shall pray to Saint Winifred that your eyes may be open, so ye can see the truth. No kin of mine is a murderer!"

"Heaven forbid that Saint Winifred should refuse the prayers of so formidable a lady!" Hugh said admiringly, after the women had left. "She would be at your abbey within a day, demanding a personal reckoning with the saint."

It brought Brother Cadfael some much welcome cheer to imagine the expression on Prior Robert's dignified features if Martha of Cotteswalde did indeed appear at the abbey to take Saint Winifred to task. His amusement, however, was brief, for the situation was serious enough. A life had been lost, a young man accused of a grievous crime. What could be done to shed some light upon the mystery?

"He did not behave like a guilty man, Hugh," he said quietly.

Beringar did not need to be told who that "he" was. He looked at the monk with a half-smile on his lips. "Cadfael, you of all people should know well that guilty men behave in all manner of ways, and not always as you or I would have expected." Then he sighed, and his tone changed from teasing to serious. "However, I agree with you. If John knew anything about Deschamps's murder, he certainly let nothing slip along the way."

"Hugh, are you prepared to believe the accusations?"

"Are you prepared to dismiss them offhand? John of Cotteswalde is not the only suspect - no, not even the most likely one - but he is a suspect, nonetheless."

Master Adam de Warre had been brought to sit on a bench on the other side of the great hearth, and was now surrounded by a nervous gaggle of servants, the lady of the house serving him mulled wine, while he voiced loud and indignant complaints about the weather. In the commotion, it seemed that everyone had forgotten about the Benedictine and his friend. Cadfael stretched his legs further towards the fire, looking every inch the kindly old monk, but, under the mild exterior, his mind was whirring. "Who, then, is the most likely suspect, would you say?"

"That, my friend," said Beringar, suddenly grinning like a cat, "remains for the two of us to discover!"


	3. Chapter 3

_1211_

Guy of Gisburne opened his eyes, blinked owlishly and asked, "What happened?"

He was confused. His head throbbed, and the hall seemed to dance and sway in a fashion that promised substantial unpleasantness, should he even attempt to move. As far as he could assess the situation without moving, then, it appeared that he was lying in his bedroll, stripped of his armour, and men were milling all around him.

De Rainault's voice sounded directly over him. "You hit your head, Gisburne. Of course, I should have known it wouldn't prove life-threatening in your case."

Gisburne tried to roll to his side, and was rewarded for his efforts by an instant wave of nausea. He dry-heaved, noting with detached pleasure how speedily the Sheriff scrambled back.

"Congratulations are in order, Gisburne," de Rainault told him from a safe distance, once the steward had stopped coughing. "It takes remarkable talent to brain yourself using nothing but a fifty-year-old bench. You never cease to amaze me, do you?"

"My lord."

"You can sleep it off till morning, Gisburne, and if you feel the need to retch, for the love of God, don't. The smell carries."

Gisburne closed his eyes, and heard de Rainault walk away. Things were not too clear to him at the moment; he couldn't remember hitting his head at all, but he thought he recalled walking around the building with a pair of strangers, a monk and a knight; a stocky old Benedictine and a small, dark-haired man not much older than himself. Thinking about them, he fell asleep.

_1146_

Reynilda's betrothed, Adam de Ware, was a large man, at least seven or eight years older than his intended bride, possessed of a loud voice, and a brash, confident manner. As soon as Reynilda informed him about the death of her uncle, the circumstances which surrounded it, and the presence of the Sheriff in the house, he insisted that he must aid in the investigation. "I was out hunting – devil take it!" he indignantly explained to Hugh and Cadfael. "Went some time after midday, to shoot myself a pheasant or a hare, but I got lost and nearly became food for the wolves myself. 'Tis a pity I was not here, or I'd have hunted down that villain John as soon as this foul murder was discovered!"

"You would not have found him," said Reynilda, a little sharply. "He's a local man, and knows the woods well. You'd never see him there after dark. Besides," she added with a sideways glance at Hugh, "his lordship thinks John cannot be the murderer, after all."

Adam waved her remark aside. "'Tis no matter, he's an escaped serf either way. Now, my lord Sheriff," he turned to Hugh, looking at him with unabashed curiosity, "what is it that you intend to do about this crime?"

Hugh studied him in turn. Not a man of these parts, of that he was sure; being Sheriff, he knew all the noble families, even in the most remote corners of the shire, but neither the face nor the name were familiar to him. "I would like to see Master Deschamps' body now, if I may."

Reynilda bowed her head in agreement. "Of course. Follow me, my lord."

Although the invitation had not been extended to Brother Cadfael, he was ready to inveigle himself along anyway; but, as he made to rise, Beringar's hand brushed his sleeve, and he saw that the Sheriff's gaze was trained on something in the hall itself, further away from the hearth. Nodding almost imperceptibly, Cadfael relaxed and leaned back in his seat. Hugh exited the hall after Reynilda, and was not greatly surprised to see that Adam de Ware had followed, moving very quietly for a man of his size.

Godfrey Deschamps' body had been laid out in his own bed, until such a time when a coffin could be made. The room was dark, the air still heavy with the smell of violent death. Beringar uncovered Deschamps' face and looked at it intently for a while. Much more peaceful in death than in life, it nevertheless retained some marks of pride and of a temper quick to flare with anger. The cheeks were more sunken than Hugh remembered from his brief meeting with the man some time ago, but other features remained unchanged: a powerful chin and a furrowed brow that not even death itself could fully smooth out. And yet, Hugh thought, he had not been such a hard man, this Godfrey Deschamps, if the servants in his house were not afraid to speak their mind freely, like Martha had.

He examined the body as best he could, looking for signs of struggle but finding none, save for a small wound to the chest, where a narrow blade had pierced Godfrey's heart and ended his life. A clean blow, Hugh noted, and almost certainly an instantaneous death. More might be discovered when Brother Cadfael looked at the dead man with his more practiced eye, but for now, this would have to suffice.

He focused his attention back on the silent couple. Reynilda was sitting on a low stool, half turned away from the body and very pale, seemingly close to tears again. When she noticed Beringar looking at her, she made an effort to compose herself and rose to her feet, ignoring Adam's outstretched hand.

"Forgive me, my lord. But he was my uncle, and my guardian, since my father's untimely death last summer. I––I cannot bear to look at him thus."

Hugh proposed that they might talk outside instead, and the offer was met with gratitude. Once she had stepped over the threshold, Reynilda breathed more easily. At Beringar's question, she repeated her story of how the murder was discovered. "I had seen my uncle alive only an hour before! He was weak after his illness, but recovering. If I had but realised..."

"And you know of no one who might have wished him ill?"

"No, my lord. My uncle had no enemies."

_Then he was a fortunate man, indeed_, Beringar thought wryly, but kept his silence.

"Except," she hesitated, "that man John... you did not believe that he was the killer, my lord, but I know that he was one such that could have had a grudge against my uncle. He made John his trusted man, and it went to his head, I think. He set his sights on me, and I would have none of it," she said with a child's brutal honesty. "My uncle had words with him, and John was angry. Do you not suppose, my lord, that he might have killed my uncle because of it?"

Hugh said nothing, turning instead to Adam de Ware. "Did you know Master Deschamps well?"

"Not very well," de Ware answered, respectful but unconcerned, indifferent to the deathly chamber that lay on the other side of the door. "My lands are far in the north, next to Reynilda's own inheritance."

"I lived there with my father, while he was yet alive," the young woman added. "It was his wish that Adam and I should marry."

_Yes, but is it your wish, too?_ wondered Beringar. She had been very anxious when she thought Adam lost in the snow, but once he had returned and she saw he was well, she seemed more impatient with him than anything else. Certainly they knew each other well; but they had the air of business partners about them, more than a young couple in love.

Aloud, he said only, "I think I have seen enough. We can go back to the hall."

---

While all this was taking place, Brother Cadfael, who had taken Beringar's wordless suggestion for what it was, ventured to talk to the three supposed pilgrims, pointed out to them by Martha of Cotteswalde; three dour, heavyset men who glowered at him as he approached, and did not move to make room for him on their bench. Still, the monk reflected, any man was entitled to care for the wellbeing of his immortal soul, and religious zeal did not have to go hand in hand with an agreeable demeanour, as he knew very well from his long acquaintance with Brother Jerome. _Well, we shall see! _he thought to himself.

The three men were not very much inclined to talk, but Cadfael persisted, full of good-natured naïveté and in the end they had to accept the fact that this prying old Benedictine would not leave them in peace until they satisfied his curiosity in some small way. Upon hearing that they were pilgrims, resting here on their way back from Shrewsbury, he clasped his hands in delight, a gesture which he had observed in the mild and unworldly old Abbot, Heribert, who yet – Cadfael thought with a small measure of guilt – had never used it to deceive anyone, as he was now doing. "But this is excellent news, my friends! Surely it means that you were in Shrewsbury on the feast of Saint Paul the Hermit?"

The men looked at one another guardedly. "We were," said one of them, bigger than the others, with thick hair falling over his small, deep-set eyes.

"Then you have witnessed the miracle? How that poor crippled lad, with the blessing of our own Saint Winifred, cast away his crutches and walked straight again?"

"Aye," the man agreed. "It was a great miracle, and we saw it, brother."

Cadfael smiled, and talked to them pleasantly for a while longer, then came to his place by the fire and sat there, deep in thought. This was how Hugh found him, when he returned to the hall.

"Well, Cadfael," Beringar sighed, sitting down by his friend, "I have just had a most interesting conversation with Mistress Burford and Master de Ware." He related everything that had been said, adding, "Cotteswalde was a perfectly harmonious household, it would seem, with the exception of young John, who, they assure me, must needs be the murderer I am looking for."

"But no mention of the quarrels between Deschamps and his niece? Not a word that perhaps there was no great love between the victim and de Ware?"

"None at all, although," here Hugh raised a sceptical eyebrow, "we have only Jennet's word that there were any such quarrels at all, and she is hardly an impartial witness."

"Would she lie to us, Hugh? With Martha close at hand to expose her untruths for what they were?" And expose them she would, this stalwart old woman, who always spoke her mind and cared nothing for what might follow. Martha would not allow Jennet to lie in her presence, even if it meant shifting the suspicion away from her great-grandson.

Hugh smiled. "Perhaps not! But let us follow on the accusations for a while yet. Martha herself told us that John had a weakness for pretty faces, so that part of Reynilda's story might well hold up. Also, if John had killed Deschamps at some time in the evening, and then set out on his way, he would have arrived in Shrewsbury at approximately the time that he did."

"If he had any reason to go to Shrewsbury at all," Brother Cadfael remarked stubbornly. "This testifies most strongly in his favour, Hugh – that he did go there."

"If that, yes! So, this is the case against John of Cotteswalde, and there are some who would dearly like to convince me that this enough to hang him as a murderer." He briefly smiled for a second time. "But I prefer to think that John is innocent, if only because, if he really knows these parts so well, he might have led my men to some shelter. I worry about them, Cadfael! They should be here by now."

The same thing had been on Brother Cadfael's mind, and he too was worried that their escort might have come to some harm in the snow. "Sergeant Warden is a stout fellow," he said to reassure himself as well as Hugh, "and I would be quite surprised if John did prove guilty in the end. I am certain he doesn't even know that he has been accused of anything yet. He will bring your men here, once the blizzard has stopped."

"I hope so, Cadfael – for our own sakes, as well as theirs. There is something happening here that I don't like. We shouldn't forget what Godfrey Deschamps wrote to me before he died. What of those supposed pilgrims – have you talked to them?"

"I have," said Cadfael, checking first to make sure that nobody was listening. "Wherever they come from, Hugh, I doubt that they were in Shrewsbury lately. I described to them the miracle that happened to Brother Rhys five years ago, and they all agreed with me that they'd witnessed it last Monday."

The two friends fell silent for a while, considering the situation. Hugh was the first to shake himself from his reverie. "I do not like where it all seems to be going, Cadfael. But come! You must look at the dead man. I tried to examine him myself, but your sharp eye will see everything that I might have missed."

"We must tread carefully, Hugh," Brother Cadfael warned him.

Beringar laughed quietly, and patted him on the back. "You are a monk, my friend! If anyone asks, we will tell them that you wanted to say your prayers over the dead man."

Nobody stopped them as they left the hall and made their way towards the room where the murdered Godfrey Deschamps lay. Cadfael uncovered the body and examined it quickly but thoroughly, while Beringar kept watch at the door. After a while, the monk raised his head and called his friend over.

"You were right, Hugh – a narrow wound through the heart and no signs of a struggle, which means that he died very quickly, without fighting back. But there is something curious about the body. Look at his wrists, Hugh! Look how limply they fall. His joints are broken, but there is no bruising. I think that when it was done, he was no longer alive."

"Which means...?"

"Which means that the stiffness which comes after death had already set in by the time he was found, and they had to break his joints in order to lay him out. Now, it sometimes happens that the stiffening of the muscles appears immediately after a man dies; I have seen such cases, and I know it to be possible. But more usually, it occurs some hours after death..."

"...and so," Hugh concluded, frowning, "Deschamps needn't have been killed in the evening; in fact, it is more likely that he died at some time during the afternoon."

"Yes," agreed Brother Cadfael. "Thus, for example, he could have been murdered before Master Adam de Ware left the manor to go for his peculiarly-timed hunting trip."


End file.
